


Hard times

by EvilWinter



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark, M/M, Multi, enjolras feels, grantaire feels, really all around feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-13
Updated: 2017-05-23
Packaged: 2018-10-31 08:57:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10896006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvilWinter/pseuds/EvilWinter
Summary: Enjolras loses something very important and finds an imperfect replacement in an unexpected place. The revolution works out! Everything else - not so much.A tale of a successful uprising told in two parts. In part one, Becoming, our friends dream; one of making the world care - the other of making him stop caring. In part two, Falling apart, those dreams come true.





	1. Becoming

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Patrick Wolf song (you guessed it) "Hard times". 'Cause, you know: "All through these hard times / We’ll work harder, harder / Give me hard times / And I’ll work harder harder / For revolution / Show me some revolution / This battle will be won"  
> It's a pretty song and complimentary to this fic, I guess.
> 
> This will be 2 chapters long, the second one is written and will go up as soon as I finish editing it (so, in a week or so, really). Characterization is mostly fanon, sorry!
> 
> TW for canon-appropriate violence and deaths.

"Your phone's ringing," Grantaire says, neutral.

In the quiet of the room, the words come as a shock, almost. Enjolras stops pacing, looks around for his cell phone, finally hears the buzzing sound of it vibrating against the surface of his table. A regular pattern, standardized, impersonal - he was never one for ringtones.

On the lit up screen stands the name of Lamarque.

Enjolras feels fury rising up in him again, tries to quell it, fails miserably. He looks to Grantaire on the off chance of him offering any comfort, but the man is staring resolutely out of the window like there's at least some kind of grand garden there and not a concrete wall of the next building. Enjolras isn't sure if he's imagining his fingers shaking very slightly as they grip the cigarette.

The phone keeps vibrating. The anger rises like a tide, and as Enjolras' palm closes around the thing, swallows him whole.

He would not remember later what he had said to Lamarque; Grantaire would claim not to have listened - meaning that whatever it was, it had to be pretty bad. There was no explanation good enough anyway, but even if there were, Enjolras wouldn't be willing to hear it.

What would it have mattered? They were dead already.

*

It wasn't a betrayal per se, whatever Enjolras might or might not have implied to certain people some time later, purely in the interest of the cause, of course.

Lamarque was simply very old, and very ill, and it was as much Enjolras' fault as his for not noticing the man falling apart.

It was one of the first really big things the Amis'd done, back when it was still exciting, when no one had been hurt yet and they treated it like some kind of twisted game. In their minds, there was no real risk: they were the good guys, so surely they would come out unscathed.

Enjolras went because it was his idea and he hated the very thought of delegating responsibilities with the fiery passion back then. Combeferre went because he had planned the whole thing-

*

"Combeferre's plan is shit," says Grantaire, breath reeking of alcohol, with urgency Enjolras wasn't aware he was capable of. He's cornered Enjolras right after the meeting, tugging him wordlessly by the sleeve into an unoccupied room and has started speaking before Enjolras could ask what's wrong. 'It's way too complicated, and we're not fucking Ocean's eleven, there's no way we're going to be able to pull this off!"

He is almost shouting; with each of his words, Enjolras' confusion gives way to anger. "You need to drink less," he says, barely keeping a hold on his emotions. Even he is unsure what he means by that: that the man's words are ludicrous or that he shouldn't have spent the entire meeting getting plastered instead of listening, giving blanket agreements and only then asking Eponine to fill him in, which results in scenes like this.

The other man looks at him as if he's grown a second head. "Enjolras," he breathes almost pleadingly, his eyes hard and manic, the shitty little grin Enjolras is so used to seeing on his face wiped clean off. "Even if one little thing goes wrong, and something always does- Enjolras, we're all going to die." He searches Enjolras' face for a reaction, doesn't find what he's looking for, hunches in on himself, lowering his eyes. His words, when they come, are colorless and quiet. "You're going to kill us all."

"Keep your fucking pessimism to yourself," Enjolras snaps and watches Grantaire flinch with some satisfaction. "The time to contribute was half an hour ago, when we were finalizing the plan and when you," he shoves slightly at the man's chest and Grantaire stumbles, catching himself on the wall, "agreed to everything. If your cowardice's getting the better of you, you need only to say so." Grantaire shakes his head slowly. "Then I'll see you in two days at Lamarque' office. Go on, go sleep it off."

Grantaire does. Not meeting Enjolras' eyes, he turns and leaves, leaving Enjolras alone with the rage he's incited. The rage that will keep Enjolras from even considering his words, simply brushing them off like they're nothing.

Enjolras' passion, he is aware, is one of his greatest strength. What he doesn't yet know is that his temper is a terrible, terrible weakness.

He, at least, will have time to learn that.

On the day of the operation, Grantaire is the first to turn up.

*

-and also knew exactly what they were looking for in the database they were about to break in. Courferac went (according to him, at least) because he needed to protect the innocent flower that was Combeferre from the dangers of the real world and Enjolras' ideas.

Grantaire went because there were no volunteers to deal with Joly's bombs, except for Bossuet, and none of them wanted that particular disaster to happen. So Enjolras played dirty and asked Grantaire to do it, knowing full well there was no chance of him ever saying no.

Lamarque gave them floor plans, and info on security guard rotations, and detailed explanations of what they were getting into and how they were going to get out alive.

*

In theory, it was supposed to go like this.

The four of them would get to the building (2-story, relatively small, surrounded by forest on all sides) in a car Marius'd bought (in a way that couldn't be traced) for that specific purpose. They would hide it some distance away from the facility, get out, wait for the shift change, steal their way in through the window while the guards exchanged their passwords and, using the map provided by Lamarque, split up to do their own thing. Well, Grantaire would split up and go to install the explosives and the other three would find the database. Courferac and Enjolras would quietly take out the guards in the room and protect Combeferre, who would break in to find the files they need, copy them to a flash drive and delete them from the source. After that, they would meet up with Grantaire again, who, ideally, would stick to the agreed upon safe way and consequently not have met any guards at all, wait for explosions to start, get out in the chaos that would ensue, return to the car, return home, celebrate, overthrow the government, celebrate again (well, maybe not the last bits yet).

In practice, five minutes into the operation they discover that Lamarque has sent them a wrong set of maps.

*

"Maybe, we should get out," Courferac whispers. "It's not too late yet."

Grantaire snorts in exactly the same second as Enjolras says, "No." Enjolras glares at him, which, as usual, has no effect whatsoever on the insufferable man. Without giving any of them a second look, Grantaire disappears down the corridor and to the left, checking his watch before turning corners, following the faulty plan easily, as if his life weren't on the line. A grudging respect rears its head in Enjolras' chest. "We've gotten too far. Remember, no escape without the explosions - and no explosions until we get the information, it's too important."

Combeferre and Courferac exchange a glance that Enjolras can't read. It makes him uncomfortable; to get rid of the feeling he purses his lips and walks on, leaving the other two to scramble after him. It's a bit underhanded but effective: he is the one who best remembers Lamarque's explanations and those are the only way to orient themselves left.

He wonders how well Grantaire's memorized them. He seemed to walk purposefully, but that could've been bravado. Enjolras hopes he knows what he's doing, but- It's Grantaire. Enjolras doesn't know what to think.

*

Here's the sad truth that saves them in the end: Grantaire can't read maps. It's that simple: for him, remembering Lamarque's directions and following them exactly was always plan A.

His memory does not fail them. 

*

They almost make it. Almost get to the meet-up point. And then Enjolras looks away for a second and Courferac walks through the wrong door, right into two guards having a coffee break in a tiny kitchenette area. One of them presses a button on his radio and a siren starts to wail.

And just like that, they've lost.

It doesn't matter that both guards are dead before they can raise their guns. Enjolras can feel it; the sensation of being discovered, something almost supernatural, as if the whole building woke up suddenly and felt them, and did not like them being there in the slightest.

They run, but they're not fast enough.

Combeferre and Courferac go down instantly, at the same time, two lucky bullets finding them, as the security shoots blindly, with just the sounds of their escape to aim for.

They're already on the floor when Enjolras turns, too late to do anything.

Behind him is a window leading outside, to safety, but, realistically, if he tries to escape now, he will just be shot in the back. Better to die with his head held high, he decides, lets the useless gun (out of bullets) slide down through his fingers and onto the floor, steps a bit away from the- from the bodies and stands still, waiting for the guards to come closer, guns pointed at him.

He keeps his back straight, like his mother has taught him, looks at their faces, rather than the weapons, keeps his face calm. In that moment it seems very important to him for some reason, to keep up appearances, to be seen as the symbol they've all told him he is, rather than a mere human afraid of death.

"In that moment", right. Only in that very moment, of course.

They stop only a couple of steps away from him. Perhaps surprised at him just standing there, they pause slightly - which is the moment Grantaire chooses to appear in the doorway.

He looks like he's been running, his eyes wide with worry or fear, and no one is looking at him yet, and so Enjolras keeps his face neutral, his gaze at the guards, a chance for Grantaire to turn away, to find another way out, a slim one, but a chance nonetheless.

Instead, Grantaire looks past the guards and straight at him. Worry slides off his face and is replaced by stubborn resolve. He takes a step in, then another, and one of the guards turns, and it's too late, Grantaire's been noticed, so Enjolras allows himself to meet his eyes, watches the usual smirk steal its way onto his features, as Grantaire elbows his way through, ever-insufferable, only to stop next to Enjolras. Another second their eyes stay locked, and some understanding begins to take root in Enjolras' head- Grantaire turns to the guards. Enjolras lets it go; it's too late to understand anything now.

There's a deafening bang-

*

In that very first mission, Enjolras learns some very important lessons.

He looks down at the wrong map in his hands and understands with some degree of horror that he hasn't checked because he's trusted Lamarque completely. Lesson one: you can not trust even completely trustworthy people.

He watches his two best friends fall onto the floor, Combeferre with his face down, Courferac's head turned at an unnatural angle, eyes dull, blood pooling around them both. Lesson two: it is incredibly easy to die. It is even easier to die if you play at revolution, rather than take it seriously.

He follows Grantaire with his eyes, as the man comes closer, to die next to him, with him. He thinks of bravery, and of kindness, and of acceptance. He thinks of being judgemental, being angry, being wrong. He does not think of regrets. Lesson three: you can sometimes trust people who are not completely trustworthy.

There's a deafening bang and the building shakes. The ceiling begins to crack, after a second so do the walls, and Enjolras has to grab Grantaire's arm to keep them both upright. One of the guards looses balance, falls onto another one, distracting the others, and Enjolras surges forwards, snatches the gun away from the closest man, fires, fires, watches Grantaire, only half a step behind him, knock out another one with a punch and pick up his gun, ducks, fires, hits a man with the gun on his temple, fires again. Tries to catch his breath, looking around for remaining threats, sees none.

Lesson four: Grantaire is probably a boxer, or maybe does some kind of martial arts.

Lesson five: if you're armed with a gun, don't fucking stand next to someone you're trying to shoot. It's not a knife, you can stand at the other side of the room and kill them just fine. It's very easy to take a gun away from you.

Lesson six: whatever his rhetoric, Enjolras really, really wants to live.

*

The walls start to crumble; they have maybe a minute before they get buried under the rubble. They need to leave, now. He turns back to the window, takes a step- and freezes.

His eyes, almost against his will, look down, to the floor. To the red puddle he's standing in. To Courferac's hair caught under his sneakers. To the bloody mass coming out of the side of Combeferre's head - that Enjolras was just about to step in.

The world goes eerily quiet, white noise replacing everything else. For a couple of seconds, Enjolras as a person disappears, gets replaced by an empty look-alike, who thinks nothing, feels nothing - fears nothing.

Then, out of nowhere, sharp pain on his cheek, his head turning with the strength of it. The sounds start to return as he is pulled bodily to the window and shoved through not too gently. He falls on his ass, stands up slowly, his body feeling like it's made out of wood, useless, too slow, going to get them both killed- where's his gun? He had a gun in his hand, just a minute ago- why is he still standing here, they need to-

Grantaire climbs out after him, looks around, eyes wild, breathing heavily. There's terrible noise as, part by part, the compound collapses on itself. At least, the wailing's stopped, Enjolras thinks distractedly, and immediately shakes himself. There's no time for this, he thinks, suddenly angry at himself.

As usual, anger is the thing that makes him move forward.

*

Later, he would not remember how they got to the car, who drove, if they talked about anything (probably not), when they split up again. When asked, Grantaire would look at him strangely, say that Enjolras was the very picture of calm and composure, that he'd insisted on driving, but left it to Grantaire to get rid of the car when he'd offered, walked off without another word. 

Enjolras himself has absolutely no recollection about any of this. The next thing he becomes aware of is rushing into his apartment and through to the bathroom, dropping to his knees and throwing up. He does it once, then another time, and another, until he's dry-heaving and shaking so much he has to grip the edges of the toilet bowl in order to stay more or less upright.

It stops eventually, thankfully, and he sits back on the bathroom floor, heart pounding for no reason, mouth disgusting, head spinning.

Dead. They are both dead. He's killed them.

He needs to get up. He has to get up right now, and call someone, because they need another meeting, so he can tell them- so he can-

Oh god, their parents.

For a second he feels viciously glad that Courferac's have disowned him years ago, and haven't shown any interest in him since. It's a terrible thing to be glad for, and it brings with it immeasurable guilt, but Enjolras can't let go of the feeling completely. Not when he knows that Combeferre's mom has worked three jobs for four years to help him graduate and how much it's taken out of her. How would Enjolras explain to her that Combeferre isn't gonna need that diploma after all?

That's when his wandering eyes catch on the dirty footprints he's left behind in his initial rush. His memory helpfully supplies the picture of standing in the pool of Courferac's blood, and Enjolras barely makes it back to the toilet before he loses another portion of bile.

Hands shaking and feeling almost drunk, he pulls off his sneakers, leaves them on the bathroom floor and goes to fetch a mop.

*

It starts out simple enough.

Enjolras washes away the footprints, throws his shoes into the garbage bin, takes the trash out.

But as he walks back inside, all he can see anywhere is the invisible dust particles, tiny molecules of blood that he's brought home with him and that are now sitting on every surface of his apartment. Everywhere he looks, blood, blood, blood.

His mind is screaming - and at the same time, it's completely empty.

He thinks of nothing as he undresses and washes his clothes by hand, which he has never done before in his life. He proceeds to wash the floors in the whole apartment now, not just the hall and the bathroom. He starts the slow and meticulous process of wiping absolutely everything in his home with a dust cloth several times over. When he's finished, he washes the floors again, just to be sure.

But as he stands up after finishing, he looks around and the blood is just - there. All around him.

Enjolras throws up again.

*

His brain turns off completely as he cleans. He would think it a blessing if he thought anything at all.

He washes everything again - twice, three, four times in a row, and then again, and again. At this point, when he washes his floors, the water comes out almost cleaner than it was before touching them, and it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter.

He wipes down his walls and washes his windows, and his doors, and his light fixtures. He repeats the whole process from the top and looks around for something else. His eyes meet the laundry basket in the corner. He throws everything in it into the washing machine, turns it on and goes to clean the bathtub. And of course, as the machine finishes, Enjolras looks at his clothes and there's blood all over them still. Of course, he has to wash it by hand now.

It's not enough. He empties his wardrobe, washes the clean clothes too.

His shoes are next. After them, he takes everything out of every cabinet and bookcase that he owns, wipes it all down, washes the insides of the furniture, puts everything back in (in a couple of hours, he will repeat this process as well).

He does his curtains and his bedding. He wrenches all his furniture away from the walls to wash behind it. He gets on a stool to wipe off the tops of his cupboards, and dressers, and everything else.

But no matter how much he works, there's always something else, something more he needs to be doing. Just like it's always been, with him.

*

He doesn't hear Grantaire come in. Presumably, he'd have knocked, almost certainly made some amount of noise with the unfamiliar lock, definitely wouldn't have tried to conceal his footsteps - none of which had mattered at all, naturally, not in the state Enjolras had been in.

He is on his hands and knees, wearing only his pajama pants (the first piece of clothing to get dry), furiously scrubbing the kitchen floor for the god-knows-which time. If Grantaire tries to attract his attention by speaking first, Enjolras doesn't process it. Instead, the first thing he becomes aware of is a hand on his shoulder.

Enjolras turns his head, meets Grantaire's eyes beneath his furrowed eyebrows and thinks only, "Oh." Grantaire's lips move, but there's only white noise where normal sounds would be, so Enjolras just keeps looking without giving a reaction. His head feels heavy, too full and useless, it takes everything he has in him to just keep it up.

Evidently despairing of him, Grantaire wraps his arms around Enjolras' body, slowly pulls him to his feet. Once there, Enjolras sways, his vision going black for a second; Grantaire keeps him upright with a steady hand around his torso.

Up close, he looks terrible. There are dark rings under his blood-shot eyes, two-days' worth of stubble on his cheeks, his hair is greasy and disheveled, his clothes rumpled. He smells like bad breath, stale alcohol and cheap cigarettes. He's the only actually dirty thing in the sparkling clean apartment.

Enjolras can't help it - he balls his hands in the fabric of his shirt and clings, absolutely refusing to let go, even when it makes it unnecessarily difficult for Grantaire to maneuver them both through the apartment into his bedroom. He blacks out for another second and Grantaire uses the moment to pry his hands away and sit him down on his bare bed. Enjolras comes to, as Grantaire's hand starts pushing him to lie down, fingers disgustingly sticky against his breastbone, considers fighting it for a whole second before submitting to the exhaustion. He's out before his head hits the stripped down pillow.

*

After that, Grantaire just sort of - doesn't leave. 

He stands more or less still as Enjolras paces restlessly around the room, picking up odd things and putting them back after a second, just for something to do. Sometimes, he would walk out of the room, and Enjolras would freeze every time, barely breathing, listening intently for the sound of the front door opening, of Grantaire leaving. The thought of it fills Enjolras with a surprising amount of dread, for no reason he can imagine. But every time Grantaire would return a few incredibly long minutes later. Sometimes his hands would be empty, other times he would carry a mug or a bowl of something hot he would press into Enjolras' hands without a single word, before walking back to the window Enjolras is starting to think of as his. 

Enjolras is so grateful he would have cried if that was something he was capable of. 

Everything hurts. He used to think it a turn of phrase, but not anymore. At the moment he is very, very aware of every part of his body because of various pains - the headache that's just barely started to fade, the sore muscles all over, the complaining of his overtired back and knees, the blistered hands, the pain in his stomach from not eating for more than 24 hours - basically, his body is not a fan of him at the moment. 

His mind is even worse. It's in a desperate scramble, trying to solve a problem that Enjolras hasn't stated yet. For the first time in his life, maybe, he doesn't have a ready obvious answer to the question of 'what to do next'.

He needs to call a meeting. He doesn't know how much his friends know, probably not enough, and that needs to be fixed. But they will be angry, and horrified, and irrational - irrational enough to do something drastic and rash, he fears. For all his objections, he is their de-facto leader and it is his job to channel that into a new goal, come up with the course of action - and for the first time, he is drawing a blank.

Mostly because, for the first time, he properly understands that yes, in fact, if they follow this road, he will kill them all. 

He misses Combeferre and Courferac so much, he can almost physically feel it in his bones. 

Shamefully, he misses his certainty more. 

*

Lamarque calls again a couple of hours later. 

Enjolras cancels the call, turns off the vibration, puts it back down, returns to his pacing - but there is no escape: every time the screen lights up it catches his attention, holds it long enough for it to be distracting, frustrating him more and more. He's already wound up tight, and each call brings him closer to the point where he'll start taking it out on inanimate objects. 

Eighth time, and Enjolras snaps; but he makes it only a single step in, before Grantaire reaches out, casual as anything, plucks the phone from the table and sticks it into his back pocket. Enjolras stops dead in his tracks, caught out. "Don't burn your bridges, Apollo," Grantaire drawls and his eyes seem to glow in the near darkness of the room. "Not now, anyway. Think it through."

This is the first time Grantaire has spoken since Enjolras woke up, disoriented and hurting all over, to find a bottle of water on the floor next to his bed and Grantaire cooking in his kitchen like it's the most natural thing in the world. 

Grantaire is right. Enjolras' natural instinct is to argue, to be dismissive, offended, even, at the implication that he would be angry enough to do something regrettable - instead, Enjolras' shoulders sag, the fight going out of him before it can set in properly at the thought of sticky fingers against his chest, his apartment smelling of unfamiliar food, too-sweet tea being pressed into his hands - kindness Enjolras doesn't deserve, would've said a month ago he doesn't want. 

"You are right," he mutters and sits down heavily on the bed, impossibly tired. "Thank you. Keep the phone, for now, okay?"

There's some strange quality to the ensuing silence, and Enjolras frowns as he raises his eyes. Grantaire is frozen in front of the dark window, face caught for a second in a mask of uneasy surprise before he hastens to relax it to a neutral expression. Enjolras looks away; this is definitely his fault, but on the list of things to feel guilty about this does not stand very high up. 

He wants to ask why Grantaire is here but knows for a fact it'll be taken as a demand to leave, so he doesn't. He wants to apologize for underestimating Grantaire but it would probably just make the man even more uncomfortable, judging by his reaction. What he really wants is to return to just not caring about Grantaire at all, but that ship has sailed now, for better or for worse. 

The silence, once broken, suddenly feels too thick, to the point of oppressive. It stretches out, impossibly awkward, and he can see Grantaire fidget out of the corner of his eye, even though he tries not to look; after another moment Enjolras breaks. "Have you really known all along?"

Grantaire looks at him blankly. "Known what?"

"You tried to warn me, before- before." 

The blankness doesn't go anywhere. "I don't, uh, see future, if that's what you are asking," he seems to be choosing his words very carefully. 

Enjolras shrugs, the motion tugging at his sore muscles unpleasantly. "That's not what I mean. It's just that I don't think I really understood we could actually die." The last word sits awkwardly in his mouth. He closes his eyes, afraid he will start seeing blood everywhere again. "But you did," he finishes lamely. 

"Ah," Grantaire says, just as intelligently. "Well. Yeah."

Enjolras nods, eyes still closed. "And you still went. I can't decide if that's amazingly brave or unbelievably stupid."

Grantaire snorts. "This has nothing to do with bravery, I can tell you that much, at least."

Enjolras taps his fingers on the bed, still restless, looks at Grantaire once more. It's difficult to look him in the eye, so Enjolras focuses on his right shoulder instead. "Unbelievable. You are unbelievable."

"Huh?"

"You risk your life for us, and you risk your life for me, and you save my skin, and you feed and water me, and protect me from myself- you do all that, without a second thought, and then not only do you let me call you stupid, but you actually go out of your way to reinforce this idea in my mind." Enjolras rubs his face. "I mean, I know I'm bad at this," he gestures helplessly between the two of them, "'talking to people without a cause in mind' stuff, but this is just unbelievable."

Grantaire makes a face and turns back to the window. A moment later comes a clicking sound of a lighter opening; and although he is standing not ten steps away, inside Enjolras' bedroom, making no move to leave, this is as clear a dismissal as if he'd stormed out.

Surprisingly, that makes Enjolras smile. It doesn't last, chased away by the guilt, but it's there for a whole second, proving that Enjolras is a terrible human being still able to smile after two of the most important people in his life have died because of him - but also, that he will live through this. For better or for worse.

*

It takes him another hour to claim his phone back from Grantaire and accept the call. This time, he listens patiently to the stammering on the other end of the line, the apologies and the explanations.

He really cares, Enjolras thinks, not necessarily surprised. It's not a good thing, or a bad thing, it's just a fact. His caring won't save anyone, can't bring anyone back from the dead, is basically useless.

Lamarque asks if he's got the information. Enjolras thinks of caring and of mistakes; he says nothing. Lamarque sighs, defeated and weary, his age, that Enjolras is usually so prepared to underestimate, now showing and impossible to ignore.

For a long moment, they both stay silent. Enjolras is almost ready to finish this useless conversation, when Lamarque starts talking again, voice stronger and firmer with each word.

Cards on the table, he says. A possibility for a proper revolution, he promises. Buying their way underground with the information, he explains. Too old himself, he admits. Everything in Enjolras' hands, he concludes.

It's just like old times; Enjolras listens and commits it all to memory: names, places, events and strategies. The only difference is, the second he ends the call there it is, Courferac's blood on the soles of his feet - or was it Combeferre's? Was it both'?

He lets the phone clutter uselessly to the ground, rubs at his eyes with too much force. "Snap out of it," Grantaire says without turning around, voice colorless, and the illusion breaks enough for Enjolras to start breathing normally again, instead of hyperventilating. He didn't even notice he was doing that. Great.

*

This time, Enjolras is the one to make tea for them both, and they sit at the kitchen table like normal humans as they drink it, domestic and cozy against all odds.

"Jehan's been calling me almost non-stop for the last three hours," Grantaire says, sipping the mixture in his mug and trying very hard not to pull a face at the taste that has to be awful. Maybe he thinks Enjolras hasn't noticed him adding whatever it was in his flask to the tea, maybe it's just a habit at this point.

Enjolras traces patterns into the wood of the table with his fingertips, stalling. "I was wondering why my phone was so silent, except for Lamarque," he mutters finally.

"Yeah, that's because you told your friends not to call you until you said it was okay, and you haven't yet. Also, they don't know what's happened."

Enjolras starts, almost spilling his tea. "You didn't tell them?"

Grantaire shrugs. "I thought you would, at first. Then I was too drunk to, then they told me they haven't seen any of you three since the operation, so I figured you had your reasons, asked Joly for your apartment key and went to investigate." He takes another sip and doesn't spit it out immediately, which is remarkable, in Enjolras' opinion. "Now I don't even know what I would say."

"Right," Enjolras taps his fingers against the table. "It's fine, I'll do it. When we go back."

There's a pause. "What exactly are we waiting for?" Grantaire blurts out, and it's obvious he's been holding on to the question for a while now. "It's been two days, Apollo. They are probably worried sick."

Enjolras sighs. "I know. I just-" he swallows, "I don't know what to do."

"You. Don't know what to do," Grantaire repeats, disbelief thick in his voice, too obvious to be natural. 

Being mocked by him is familiar territory; Enjolras' hackles rise as if on command. "Well, forgive me for not having some kind of magical manual on how to overthrow the corrupt government without killing any of my friends in the process," he says, faux-calm, and Grantaire looks at him, startled, before breaking out the inevitable annoying grin, eyes narrow, shoulders tense.

"Oh, now we care about not killing anyone, do we? What happened to 'our lives don't matter'?" he drawls, and now this is mockery, when it wasn't before, and Enjolras is caught off-guard by how defensive it sounds. It doesn't make sense- except, he suddenly realizes, his own shoulders are already squared, knuckles white where he's gripping his mug, leaning in like he's preparing to lash out.

He gets a curious picture in his mind of two dogs baring teeth at each other out of fear of being attacked.

The fight goes out of Enjolras in a rush, leaving him empty and faintly guilty. Distantly, he wonders if he is the reason their interactions usually escalate so quickly, spinning out of control with just a few ill-timed words. At least, they haven't said anything unforgivable, or even that bad, this time - but then, it's difficult to maintain anger after what Grantaire's done.

"I care," Enjolras says quietly, and gets a helpless look from Grantaire, who seems to be now completely lost. "I guess I thought we could come out on top without any sacrifices," he snorts, self-loathing and tired, "and I guess I was wrong."

Grantaire stares at him silently for a bit. When he speaks, it's a non-sequitur: "What did Lamarque tell you?"

"He wanted to know if we managed to get the information. Said it's our chance to go underground and start an actual revolution."

Grantaire nods, considering. "Did we? Get the information, I mean."

Enjolras snorts, and there's absolutely no humor in it. He reaches into his pocket and drops a flash drive onto the table. It's so small; such a silly thing to fight and die for. "It's all here."

"Great," Grantaire says, and it sounds flat, like he cannot be bothered to even try to summon any enthusiasm. "So are we going underground then?"

"That's what I'm stuck at," Enjolras runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "We do that, and we'll all die, and that's-" he swallows, tries again, "but we can't exactly stop now, can we? Not after-"

"The hell we can't," interrupts Grantaire, and he sounds casual, not at all like that time he tried to talk Enjolras out of their stupid mission. "We are not some fucking superheroes, Apollo. Not bulletproof, no superpowers. I know you think the whole world is yours to save, but it's not. It's not. You can quit anytime and none of us would blame you."

This time Enjolras keeps hold on his temper, and he's getting better at this, however belated. He is just human; the last 48 hours have proven it beyond doubt. "True," he replies, just as casually. "So what do you think we should do? With what's happening right now, living in this country is going to become very hard in the next couple of years."

Grantaire grins, easy and bright. "So let's leave!" he exclaims eagerly. "I will follow you wherever you go, of course," he continues, like it's an obvious thing; and maybe it is. 

"Oh," Enjolras can't help the answering smile, "where would we go?"

Grantaire considers it for a second, before concluding in a very serious tone, "To Italy. I hear it's great this time of the year."

"It is," Enjolras nods, equally serious. "Somewhere on the coast? I've always wanted to live by the sea."

"Of course. We'll buy a little white house with a vineyard-"

"And a garden."

"Yeah. I can work in the docks, or anywhere, really - I'm good with my hands."

"I'll tend the garden, then- the vineyard, too, I guess. I'm sure I can figure out the vine-making."

Grantaire's grin is blinding. "It can't be that hard, really."

"Right. Do you speak Italian at all?"

"Not a word. You?"

"A bit. I'll translate for both of us, then."

"I'll cook for both of us in return."

"Your cooking is impressive," agrees Enjolras, smiling softly. Grantaire's eyes shine with mirth. "We'll go swimming in the evenings when it's not too hot."

"And in the afternoons we'll hide from the heat in the house. No TV, though, or the Internet. Nothing to spoil it." Grantaire stops to think for a second. "I'll buy you some books, I guess."

"What will you do then?"

"Paint," says Grantaire wistfully. "I haven't had time to paint in months."

Enjolras hurries to shift the conversation from reality, afraid of the spell breaking. "Will you paint me?"

"Try and stop me," laughs Grantaire. "You, seating on our porch, or working in the garden, or- playing with our cat. Can we get a cat?"

In Enjolras' pocket, his phone vibrates, signaling that the time for dreaming's run out. "Yes," he says, fishes the bloody thing out, without breaking the eye contact or losing the smile. "We can get a cat, Grantaire, and I'll pose for you, even, and nobody will ever have to die."

And accepts the call.

*

"Combeferre and Courferac are dead and we're going underground," Enjolras proclaims in one breath. Among the gasps that follow, Grantaire toasts him with his flask from the back of the room before drinking. "If anyone, for whatever reason, doesn't want to join me and Grantaire there, now is the time to leave."

No one moves, and Enjolras closes his eyes for a second, pained. Behind his eyelids is an endless mass of water, a white house on the shore, making wine and posing for pictures, and Grantaire, paint streaks on his arms and face, laughing.

Enjolras opens his eyes and launches into an explanation.


	2. Falling apart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of winning, a bit of heartbreak.
> 
> The quote Grantaire's butchering is from Klaus Mann's Mephisto. It's a great book that has nothing to do with this work whatsoever.

Comberferre is gentle, but stern. He lists what seems to be every single mistake Enjolras has ever made methodically, and the list stretches on and on, but Combeferre is not mean about it, they both know someone has to keep Enjolras in check, and it's not gonna be Grantaire.

Enjolras listens carefully, easy acceptance of his faults untinged by hurt, nods from time to time. He's done so many terrible things; it takes Combeferre a while to go through them all, pointing out the faults in Enjolras' logic and better ways he could've handled it.

Courferac looks between them with concern. Enjolras knows he will interrupt Combeferre immediately if at any point this becomes uncomfortable, itches to interrupt as it is - but the sad truth is, this is the most comfortable Enjolras's been in months, years maybe. These days people just do as he says without a thought, and he misses this kind of gentle chiding Combeferre's so exceptional at.

Something about that thought chafes unexpectedly. Enjolras frowns, tries and fails to pinpoint the source of discomfort.

"Are you listening? Enjolras?" Combeferre asks, sensing inattention immediately. He really should've become a teacher, he would've been brilliant.

"Yeah, sorry," Enjolras answers at the same time with Courferac's "Oh, will you let him be, 'Ferre. He's doing the best he can."

Combeferre says nothing. That stings. "I'm sorry," Enjolras offers, hiding his eyes.

"Look at what you've done," Courferac fumes, "you've upset him!"

"He's not a child," comes the cold answer. "He will deal with the results of his actions, one way or another."

"But do we have to punish him for it? Can we not just talk to each other like normal people, for once?"

"I'm just trying to help."

Enjolras sighs, hugs his knees to the chest, rests his forehead on them. It's an old argument; like this, he feels almost like a child whose parents fight around him as if he's not there. He wishes it would end.

He wishes it wouldn't.

Gradually, he becomes aware that he doesn't understand what they're saying anymore. They're arguing still, loud exasperation against carefully contained anger, but the words they are saying are nonsense, reminding him, bizarrely, of the way the Sims characters speak.

Enjolras' head snaps up, and sure enough, they are not so much speaking as gurgling through the blood that spills from both their mouths, wide rivers of it quickly covering the floor, and he scrambles away, even though he knows by now it's going to be useless.

They both turn to look at him, Courferac reaches out, regret written all over his face. Combeferre puts a hand on his arm, holding him back gently. As Enjolras watches, the right side of Combeferre's face sort of collapses inward, more blood rushing out, mixed with something thicker, that Enjolras doesn't want to think about. He's backed up against a wall, nowhere left to run, and everywhere around him, on him, there's blood, endless streams of it coming from every direction at once, and his throat locks, the scream caught inside burning painfully-

*

He sits up in his bed with a single jerk of a movement, eyes flying open, still on the verge of screaming.

It takes a while to coax his heart into calmness, his throat muscles into relaxing. He sits there, a clammy palm against his forehead, taking deep breaths through teeth pressed together, and tries not to mind that Grantaire watches him do it.

"You okay?" the man asks cautiously, not moving from the stool he dragged to the opposite side of the room yesterday, a book lying open in his lap. Not for the first time, Enjolras wonders why not just read in bed, but he knows why, even if he refuses to acknowledge it; why Grantaire is so painfully polite about having to share a living space, why he puts as much space as possible between them at all times, why he never touches Enjolras. He knows, and yet it's tiring just the same. Enjolras is not a particularly tactile person, but even he is beginning to feel touch-starved - it must be twice as bad for Grantaire.

"Fine,” Enjolras lies easily. Thinking about Grantaire distracts him, at least, and breathing comes more naturally in its wake. As much as Enjolras fights it, it's nice to have someone near you, even when 'near' is, mostly, the other side of the room.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Grantaire tries, aiming for casual and missing by a wide margin.

That makes Enjolras smile. "Nothing to talk about. It's the old one, with the blood. You've heard it already."

Grantaire nods, leaning against the wall behind him and crossing his legs. Another bit of space between them, if an insignificant one.

Enjolras flops back onto his pillow, exasperated. "Will you not come to bed?" he asks, looking determinedly at the ceiling. It's off-white, a series of cracks running through it right above Enjolras' head, and Enjolras busies himself with counting them.

There's a rustle of clothes, then footsteps. Grantaire enjoys arguing with him, sometimes can't help it, but for all the arguments he has yet to refuse Enjolras anything. Perhaps it should make him feel guilty for asking, but the nightmare left him weak and wishing for a break from loneliness - Grantaire can call him an angel or Apollo, but Enjolras is as human as they come. 

There's only one bed in the room, almost big enough for two people, and that's a luxury. In the last month alone they've slept in terrible motel rooms, dirty and crawling with insects, in a stolen car, in the waiting room on a railway station and on a bare mattress on the floor of an abandoned building. Here, it's stuffy and too hot for having no windows, but it's clean, and they have a proper bed and a shower they can use anytime - what else is there to want for? 

If Enjolras knew how much literal dirt was involved in a revolution- ah, but he would've done it anyway. He would've always done it. 

Grantaire gets under the covers, mostly dressed, lies there stiffly, pressed to Enjolras shoulder to hips. He's uncomfortable, but solid and warm; Enjolras wishes he hadn't asked and doesn't. 

It's too hot to sleep and too awkward to talk, so they lie there silently, staring at cracks in the ceiling until it's time to get going again. 

*

It's easier in public situations, where Grantaire sings praise to him and Enjolras dismisses it as mocking, denying the very real possibility that it's not. 

Grantaire says, "You are the very definition of radiance. Your very skin seems to shine any time you open your mouth. Be careful, Apollo, a bit more and you will burn our weak mortal eyes." Enjolras thinks, impossibly, he is right. He can almost feel the light escaping him, enveloping anyone who stops to listen, sees it as their eyes glaze over, more importantly, as they offer themselves to the cause for little to no reward. 

Grantaire names their deaths a ritual sacrifice. Enjolras hates it and hates even more that he's starting to agree. 

It is no more about believing in the cause, the way it used to be with the Amis. Now people believe in him. 

Enjolras talks, and the resistance blooms, growing strong, becoming a force to be reckoned with. It's a slow process for a few years until it's not; until suddenly they've got more money than they know what to do with, more supporters than the regime.

The retaliation is brutal. 

*

"One hundred and four people," the phone says. Enjolras closes his eyes, swallows thickly. It's never been more than seven at a time, and now this.

"Anyone we know personally?" he forces out, keeping his voice level. 

For about three seconds the line stays silent; Enjolras' heart sinks, and sinks, and sinks. "Bossuet and Feully," Eponine says, like ripping off a band-aid. "I'm sorry."

Enjolras doesn't realize he's frozen until Grantaire takes the phone out of his hand, murmurs a few agreements into it, a deep frown settled between his eyebrows. He hangs up with a sigh, returns the phone.

Neither of them knows what to say. Enjolras half expects Grantaire's 'I told you so', but out of the two of them Enjolras has always been the cruel one, so if Grantaire's thinking it, he keeps it to himself.

He is much better than Enjolras deserves. 

*

It's an hour later when Musichetta comes. Though 'comes' is an unsuitably calm word; Musichetta bursts in, door slamming against the wall, startling both Grantaire and Enjolras badly from where they were talking out their options. 

Behind her, chest heaving, is Joly, a stark contrast to Musichetta's red face and wild face expression. He's sickly pale, sweaty, horrified rather than angry and he tries uselessly to catch her hand, in an effort to lead her away or give her comfort, Enjolras can't tell. 

Musichetta's grief has taken control from her. She shouts, curses and blames, the words often blending into each other to the point where Enjolras would have to struggle to understand her. He lets the words wash over him instead; the intent is clear enough and she can't say anything he hasn't said to himself by now. He darts a glance at Grantaire (worry and guilt) and makes a decision. 

"Quiet," he orders, and Musichetta falls silent immediately, old habits difficult to kill. "Who told you you were allowed to barge in like this? We were having a conversation." She is not the only one who can be scary and unfair when angered.

Musichetta squares her shoulders, grits her teeth. "You killed him!" she hisses, which cuts deep, like all truths, and which doesn't matter right now. 

"Collateral damage," Enjolras spits and watches everyone in the room flinch. 

Musichetta steps forward, absolute murder in her eyes, Joly clutching her arm desperately, a litany of "come on, let's just go, please, let's leave" that she doesn't react to. Grantaire steps between her and Enjolras, pale and determined. 

Musichetta stops. "You too, R?" Her eyes search his face. "Have you forgotten? You were our friend before you were his dog. Will you really take his side, even now?"

Grantaire's back is to Enjolras, but he can hear the slight smile in Grantaire's voice, as he says, "We cannot always choose the gods we serve".

Musichetta makes a noise that is not quite human. Joly puts all his weight into holding her away from Grantaire, as she screeches, "Bossuet's dead and you give me some fucking poetry?! Fuck you and fuck your pathetic crush! I wish we had left you to live on the streets! I wish we had never met you! I wish you were dead and not him!"

Joly cries, "'Chetta, please!" and she stops long enough for Enjolras' cold "Get out," to register. She turns on her heal, fuming, storms out, Joly in tow. 

For the longest second in Enjolras' life, Grantaire stands there without moving, facing away, and this is the moment where Enjolras would pray, were he religious. He isn't; instead, he holds his breath, willing Grantaire silently to understand, preparing himself in case he has finally gone too far. 

Grantaire turns, face full of some indescribable emotion, looks him in the eye and breathes out, fervently, "Thank you", and Enjolras doesn't know why he thought he wouldn't understand. 

Grantaire always understands. Grantaire is always there. Grantaire is more than Enjolras deserves. 

Grantaire is the only thing that matters. 

*

Neither Musichetta, nor Joly ever come back. 

Small victories are the most important ones. 

*

Bahorel dies uselessly, in a bar fight, and Enjolras fumes and paces, spitting poison. 

Grantaire laughs, sound bitter and unpleasant, says, "This, too, you will take from us, angel? We do not have the right to live for ourselves, we've given it up for you. Leave us the dignity of choosing to die for ourselves, if nothing else."

Enjolras turns away, ashamed and furious, lets his poison drip down his own throat instead of letting it out into the world - wonders, where his grief is. 

What is grief? 

*

Enjolras thinks, it would not have been like this if Courferac and Combeferre had lived. Under no circumstances would they have allowed the movement to turn into a cult. In his dream, Combeferre never tires of reminding Enjolras of that, and despite Courferac's gentle reassurances, it is a failure on Enjolras' part, though Grantaire is to blame as well, his generous praises rebutted by no one, falling onto the eager ears.

In an ideal world, they would have lived and kept him from becoming a- whatever it is he's become. But the strength of the cults is numbers of passionately obedient, large and growing larger, protesting and going on strikes in his name; Enjolras finds comfort in that, at least. 

Of course, the comfort's an empty one, whether he knows that or not. 

When it becomes apparent that they need people to lead branches of rebellion in the more distant parts of the country, Enjolras sends the rest of the Amis without a second thought. He doesn't trust the competence or the loyalty of anyone else, after all. Except for Marius and Grantaire, who stay with him in Paris, though for very different reasons, everyone else leaves. 

"Look at you, the sun-like emperor, hand-picking the aristocrats out of your closest friends. Oh, the social justice! Oh, equal opportunities! Oh, anarchy!" Grantaire huffs, "What a legacy of change to leave behind!"

This, too, you will take from me? Enjolras thinks, perhaps unfairly. He can feel the hope for a perfect world, usually leaking out of him in droplets, rush out in a steady widening stream.

What's left is an emptiness steadily growing too big to ignore. The desire to stuff it with- anything, anything will do, is so strong Enjolras can't breathe for a whole second, reels, drowning in conflicting needs and terror. 

The revolution as you run it is a terrible sham, his inner Combeferre supplies helpfully. Stop and rethink everything, immediately. 

Grantaire is being unfair and trying to get a rise out of you, Courferac argues. Talk to him, you will both feel better about everything.

Enjolras's been silent for too long; now there's a hand on his arm, barely touching, and that almost-not-quite-contact is suddenly unbearable. Enjolras steps into Grantaire's personal space, watches his eyes go wide and helpless, and clings, as they kiss, balling his hands in the fabric of Grantaire's shirt, absolutely refusing to let go, even when it makes it unnecessarily difficult for Grantaire to maneuver them both through the apartment into his bedroom. 

*

At some point of them having sex for the first time, Enjolras asks, "Is this okay?"

Grantaire laughs breathily, eyes shut tight, chest heaving, says, "No, definitely not," and when Enjolras freezes, he demands, in a whine, "Don't you dare stop." And since Enjolras is not made of steel, he doesn't. 

That's pretty much how the relationship goes. 

*

It changes things. Well, not really. In fact, it only changes one very small thing inside Enjolras that's been ready to change for a while anyway.

He starts looking for a way out.

*

Gavroche is 15 when Enjolras notices the way his orphans look at him. 

He is only 15 - but it's there, bright and unmistakable. The adoration, the eyes glazing over, the unquestioning loyalty- it's the same, the exact same thing Enjolras sees every day wherever he goes. Barely a teenager, and yet. And yet. 

Enjolras watches him talk, charismatic, sharp, shining, and thinks, here it is, here's what he's been looking for.

There's guilt there, so much guilt he has trouble breathing for a moment, the worst he's felt in a while - and then his eye meets Grantaire's, and the giddy hope wins out. He's made so many sacrifices already; what's one more? Italy, Enjolras thinks, can almost taste the sea salt on his tongue, feel the sun on his skin. He grins at Grantaire. 

Grantaire smiles back, pleased with his happiness, if unsure of its cause. 

*

Eponine sends her brother over without protest. She doesn't care; Enjolras isn't even sure whether she would if she knew what he intends for the boy. Grantaire finds out soon enough, since Enjolras doesn't really hide things from him, so it's he who gets pissed at the idea. 

"He is a child, Enjolras! The fuck is your problem?" He shouts, and that feels strange now: they haven't had a proper screaming match for years and years, one or both of them now used to backing down when they feel their anger rising, at least until they calm down, and sometimes for good. These days they value their relationship above their principles, which is both lovely and sad. 

"There is no problem. We were younger when we started," Enjolras snaps. 

"Yeah, started handing out flyers, not leading an army!"

"So? He's capable, you've seen it too-"

"He's like a little brother to me!"

"So he's family, there's no question of trust and morals-"

"That doesn't mean you can just-"

"-and he is willing! He wants to be the leader!"

Grantaire slams his fist into the table between them. A cup tips over, spilling wine everywhere, as they sit glaring at each other. "You will not send a child to die in your stead," Grantaire spits, and it hurts, so Enjolras slumps with his elbows on the wet table, lowers his eyes. 

"What happened to 'you can get out anytime, no one will blame you'?" He asks quietly. "I want out, Grantaire. I want..." Italy, he doesn't dare say out loud. 

The silence rings. Enjolras looks up after a few seconds to find Grantaire pale and staring. Slowly, the other man raises his hands and clutches his own hair, and Enjolras reels back from the madness in his eyes. "Do you know how long I've dreamt of hearing that from you, Apollo? How did you manage to turn even this into a nightmare?"

There's nothing to say to that. This is, after all, what Enjolras does - turn idealistic unreachable dreams into very real nightmares. 

*

That night Grantaire stumbles into their bed, drunk and sad, but allows himself to be kissed. "I'm sorry," Enjolras says and Grantaire laughs, unhinged. 

"I do not begrudge a man who he is," he slurs, a quote from somewhere that Enjolras doesn't recognize. Grantaire buries his head in the crook of Enjolras's neck, sighs. "Do what you will, angel. Buy your freedom with another's blood. I give up."

"I love you," Enjolras says because it's true.

"I love you too," comes the obvious answer. 

It fixes nothing. 

*

Enjolras has Gavroche deliver some speeches, do some conscripting, raise some money. Everything comes easy as breathing to the boy - in some cases, Enjolras thinks, he would've done a worse job than Gavroche, and that's reassuring. Planning attacks, allocating resources, hours-long conference calls with Eponine and Jehan go tougher but still passable. A bit more time for him to grow up, and then-

Enjolras is uncharacteristically patient as Gavroche learns, little by little, nuances and workarounds - Grantaire watches from behind Enjolras' right shoulder, as usual, eyes hooded, never letting go of his flask. Enjolras introduces the boy to people as his second in command, the one to replace him if something happens to him - Grantaire grinds his teeth, and people assume jealousy, which is laughable, but easy enough to believe for those who don't know them well. 

"I promise- I swear, R, he's not sleeping with me!" Enjolras catches one time as he walks by Gavroche's room. It stops him short. A choking sound follows, then in Grantaire's slightly horrified voice, "Well, I sure hope not, kid." Enjolras smiles and continues on his way, as Gavroche cries out, "Then what is it? Why are you avoiding me? What did I do?" Mercifully, Enjolras is too far to hear the answer. 

The boy makes it almost a year before he's picked out by a sniper, overconfidence and idealism putting him in a perfect place for a bullet. In an uneasy coincidence, Eponine is apprehended earlier that same day, on the other end of the country, and faces the firing squad only an hour after her brother's death, having never found out about it. 

Grantaire cries, huge sobs shaking his body with every breath; Enjolras feels nothing. 

Nothing at all. 

*

He hasn't had a dream about blood in years. Neither Combeferre, nor Courferac come to see him. 

Grantaire tosses and turns - Enjolras's sleep is deep and sound. 

*

Jehan comes to visit. 

He is heavier now, his hair almost gray at barely past thirty, eyes tired and duller than Enjolras remembers. Marius is overjoyed; he misses the old days badly, and since he himself has lost almost none of his original faith, Enjolras and Grantaire's presence suffocates him rather than brings the memories back. 

They drink and remember, in sharp contrast to the usual trying to forget. They say the names of the dead and gone out loud - with fondness and sadness mixed so closely it's impossible to separate the two. They sing songs it all started with. 

The chairs around the table almost - almost - seem not empty. 

Marius still can't hold his liquor, and Enjolras has to help him upstairs into his bed like they are still students, and in the true fashion of the period, Marius babbles about a girl, and falling in love, and beauty like no other, and knowing she's the one. 

Enjolras is about to snap about loyalty to the cause and love being irrelevant, when he remembers that he hasn't let Grantaire anywhere near the shooting in a decade, sometimes to the point of leaving cities at the slightest hint of trouble. 

Enjolras holds his tongue and shuts the door silently behind himself to let Marius rest. 

Grantaire and Jehan are talking downstairs and Enjolras stops just out of sight at the sound of his own name. 

"Do you regret it?" Grantaire asks. There's a rustle of fabric and a huff of breath - maybe a shrug. 

"I used to, for a while," comes the answer. "Now I don't know. We are winning, aren't we? His methods work. The people will have their rights back. That's what matters." But it sounds empty, devoid of all meaning. 

Grantaire humms. The doubts remain unspoken even as they hang in the air, heavy to the point of almost being palpable. 

"What about you, R?" Jehan ventures. "I know you got at least some of what you used to want. Can't be all bad. Regrets?"

"Never." The answer is clear and sharp, and something inside Enjolras almost bursts with the joy of not having ruined this, at least. "There's nothing I could have done differently. It would always end like this."

Jehan makes a sound of agreement. "I can't imagine any other life. Literally, there's nothing but revolution inside my head. Do you remember I used to write a bit? Can't anymore. Imagination shriveled up and died. All I can think about is weapon deliveries and security risks - not something poems are made off."

"The last time I touched paint was before our first mission. God, a decade ago - more." There's a bit of silence. "Standing next to him - it's like being caught in a storm. You know? You may struggle or surrender, and it won't care, will just bring you along anyway, and if you drown in the process, then that's just your luck, not it's fault for being there."

A pause. "You know," Jehan says, thoughtful, "Joly called me that day, after- after talking to you two. I get what Enjolras did, but then Joly told me what you said, and I couldn't believe it at first, couldn't understand it. I think I understand now."

Grantaire makes an inquiring sound, and Jehan goes on. "Poetry has its way of worming into your heart and staying there. That's what it's known for. You dress your illusions in clumsy metaphors - and suddenly, they seem credible, don't they?"

"Do not talk to me about illusions, Jehan," Grantaire says, more taken aback than offended. "You are the ones who encouraged him at the beginning. You gave him the footing he wouldn't have alone. I was just a fool in love, along for the ride."

Jehan snorts. "I'm not blameless, none of us are. But you- how do you not see it, R? Combeferre and Courferac kept him grounded and in check, you- you made him into this, this thing instead of a person, this golden idol we now have to pray to.

"You are not caught in a storm, R. That's a wrong metaphor. Let's go with another one of yours, instead. Let's call this what it is: a religion, with our fearless leader as its god. Do you know what that makes you?"

"A believer," Grantaire presumes, hoarse. 

Jehan sighs. "The high priest, R. The one who shapes the god's image in the eyes of men, and therefore the one who creates him. The god's cruelty and his indifference are out of your control, of course. But then, isn't it the men who define what their gods are? And weren't you the first to believe?"

"What will you have me do, Jehan?" Grantaire asks, angry. He means to continue, but Jehan is faster. 

"Ideally? Walk away."

The silence rings and Enjolras can't take it anymore. He strides in, positions himself at Grantaire's right shoulder, a mirror reflection of the usual arrangement, puts a calming hand on his arm, before turning to face Jehan. "How much did you hear?" the man asks, looking tired. 

"Enough."

"Look, Enjolras... I am not saying you are wrong to do what you do, per se. I believe still; that we'll win, and that better times are ahead. I will die for the cause tomorrow if it needs me to." He takes a breath. "But I don't like what we've become. And to tell you the truth, I don't much like you either, anymore."

Enjolras nods, runs his hand up Grantaire's arm to his neck and down again, automatic, calming them both. "That's okay, Jehan. I wish you wouldn't take it out on Grantaire-"

"I am sitting right here."

"-but otherwise, you're good. I'm sorry I disappointed you."

"That's the thing," Jehan says, rising. "You didn't. You did exactly what we hoped you will do, and got the result we wanted. If anything, it's us who have disappointed you. Good night, Enjolras, R."

As he exits, Enjolras sits down next to Grantaire, letting go of his arm, and Grantaire leans into the touch slightly, before straightening back up. It makes something in Enjolras's chest go warm and tight for a second. "I think I could stop you, with Gavroche, at least, and if I really tried - maybe, at the very beginning," Grantaire says, almost whispering. "I think Jehan is right. I give up control too readily when it comes to you."

Enjolras itches to make him feel better, has no idea how, can only be honest. "Maybe. I don't know." He takes a second to think it through. "That time, in my old apartment's kitchen... it might've been possible. But with Gavroche- the idea of getting away from this nightmare- I'm not sure anyone could talk me out of it, even you."

There's a ghost of a smile on Grantaire's lips. "Even me," he repeats slowly like he's tasting the words. "If I asked you to walk away with me now, then, like Jehan said, would you?"

Enjolras lowers his eyes. "Would you ask?"

Grantaire pauses to take his hand. Enjolras kisses his fingers. "Never," Grantaire says, bitter and resigned. "Though maybe I should."

Enjolras laughs, although it's the furthest thing from funny. 

*

"Jehan, for the love of god! Get out! Leave it, leave it! Get out!" Grantaire shouts, and it has no effect.

The phone on the table between them spits a bit of static, then Jehan's voice says, calm as ever, "Almost done, don't worry."

Enjolras has his own phone to his ear. "Three more minutes," the woman on the other end updates him hurriedly. He thanks her and hangs up. Three more minutes - and then it's too late, and the soldiers will find the building. If Jehan left right this second- but there's too much information that could get people killed lying around, and so instead of running Jehan is formatting flash drives and hard drives and burning paper, still on the phone to report his progress.

As soon as Enjolras is done, Grantaire turns to him, clutching his hand painfully. Please, his face says. Please. And yet his lips produce no sound. 

Enjolras understands like he understood all the other times this has happened. If Grantaire asks out loud, Enjolras will call Jehan away - easy as that. But then it would be Grantaire's choice, and the man has spent half of his life running from choices like this. No, he will stay silent, and whatever follows, it will be Enjolras' decision. Jehan or faceless strangers alike: their death will be Enjolras' fault.

He stares right ahead and says nothing. Grantaire closes his eyes, as if in pain. After a minute of tense silence, Jehan says bleakly, "They are here. I can hear them running up the stairs. For what it's worth, I'm done. They will find nothing of value." Grantaire swears under his breath. "Yeah," Jehan agrees. "Hey, Enjolras?"

"Yes?"

"You are the worst thing that has ever happened to me. To all of us."

"I know."

"Good. Keep that in mind. And take care of R for me. You are good for that, at least." He sighs. "I'm gonna hang up now. See you on the other side, I guess."

"No!" Marius exclaims and they all jump, having forgotten he was in the room. "Stay on the line. I need to try- I need to-" he sobs, and the rest of the sentence is lost.

Right, Enjolras thinks, Marius needs to try and work out if the soldiers are working under their government or the other one, the one Marius has just reached an agreement with that could win them this war. If the ally betrayed them, it's entirely possible they're the ones who sent people to Jehan's base. And if it's them, the deal is off, and they are set back another couple of years.

If there were cameras there - but there are none, and the satellite images won't give them anything. Neither will, probably, this phone call, but at least there's a slim chance this way, which is better than nothing.

Grantaire covers his face with his hands, but Enjolras still can hear the quiet "No, please, no, don't make me listen, please, no, no, no," he is muttering, and he almost tells Jehan to hang up anyway, when the man himself says, "Be at peace, friends. No one betrayed you: Javert is standing in my doorway."

Marius lets out another shuddering sob, but Enjolras can see guilt and relief on his face; he is happy his decade of diplomatic work has not gone to waste, even if it cost him a friend to find out.

"Long live the republic," Jehan says without much conviction. "Long live the revolution."

Shots fired; a heavy thump.

Enjolras presses the button to end the call.

*

Two things happen at once: the regime falls and they run out of places to hide.

They are in the capital again, and they've been found. It doesn't really matter: the war's being won just as the uniformed people surround their building. Enjolras and Grantaire with their cult, Marius with his foreign friends - they've done their part through and through; it worked, finally, unbelievably, perfectly. And now to die as an afterthought, in the last useless convulsion of the dying power - how ridiculous.

Maybe it's fitting that they would die now - like tools being thrown away after completing their job. Maybe they were not meant to live in the world they gave up everything for. Maybe it's poetic justice demanding the last sacrifice.

Enjolras really, really wants to live.

It is not an option. Javert's side may have lost the war (and there's a rumor going around that he's killed himself this morning, which is neither here nor there), but he has enough people yet to hunt them down, even if it won't make a difference at this point.

If Enjolras knows anything about his revolution, they will not be deterred by his death - rather, they will make him into a martyr and march on, in his name.

"You wouldn't have any bombs installed around the back this time, would you?" he says, smoothing down Grantaire's curls, as the man lays his head onto Enjolras' lap, eyes closed.

Grantaire snorts, cheerfully drunk. "Afraid not, angel. We're on the fourteenth floor, too, no jumping out of the window for us."

Enjolras makes a non-committal sound. Grantaire pops an eye open. "Oh," he says quietly. "Are we considering that, then?"

Enjolras shakes his head. "No. Not really, no." He thinks he can feel Grantaire relax a little bit. "We have maybe fifteen minutes left. I'd rather not cut it short, love."

Grantaire smiles and closes his eyes again. "I will never get tired of hearing you call me that. I forget to be angry with you or myself when I hear that word fall from your lips."

"You can be angry, if that helps," Enjolras says quietly.

Grantaire makes a defeated gesture. "I don't think I have it in me anymore."

"Me neither," Enjolras whispers, and for possibly the first time in his life it is true: there's no anger to be summoned. They've won; he is spent.

He pets Grantaire's head and looks out the window in silence. It's summer, and the weather is lovely, and Enjolras gets an urge to drag Grantaire out to the streets, or better yet, to a park, to walk among fountains and a sea of green, and to breathe, and to kiss with abandon. To live - even a little longer.

He shuts his eyes.

"Why did I not run away to Italy with you, love?" he asks quietly, and the question comes out genuinely puzzled. 

"Do you not remember?"

"No."

"Huh," Grantaire mulls it over. "I guess you used to care about all this nonsense." He waves his hand, encapsulating years of war in a simple gesture.

"Did I really?" Enjolras muses. The revolution seems far away and unimportant; such a silly thing to fight and die for.

"Sure. I couldn't believe it either, at first. But you did care. You cared so much I felt a husk next to you. We all did, but I more than others."

"The others... Marius is in the building with us, no?"

"He is. I really thought if anyone could get out, it's him."

"Me too," Enjolras smiles. "Do you know he's been keeping in touch with that girl he fell for? He thought I would be angry, bu actually, I'm glad. A bit of happiness during hard times - a rare fit."

"We were happy too, though, weren't we?" Grantaire asks, chewing his lip.

"Of course. This they can not take from us," Enjolras says, and believes it. "I'm so glad you followed me," he breathes. 

"I corrupted you, Apollo. Without me-"

"Then I'm happy I am corrupted. I only wish I listened to you sooner."

"How the gods fall," Grantaire mutters and reaches out to caress his cheek.

They hear footsteps in the hallway. Heavy, hurried, threatening sounds and Enjolras sighs, and wishes again for a way out that isn't there. They start ramming into the door.

There's nothing to say now, or rather, there's too much to be said. They stay as they are while the door breaks and the masked men storm in, quiet and efficient, guns trained on the pair of men on the couch.

Enjolras keeps sitting. Grantaire curls further into him, hiding his face in Enjolras' stomach, and if he could give anything, anything at all, to keep them safe-

He keeps stroking Grantaire's hair.

There's a deafening bang-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, now I'm sad. 
> 
> If you are wondering, yes, Marius did make it out alive thanks to Cosette and Jean Valjean. Hurray for him, I guess.
> 
> Write me a couple of words in the comments, perhaps? It would literally make me the happiest girl alive, I promise. :D

**Author's Note:**

> Can you tell I was sliiiiightly traumatized by Enjolras&Grantaire's death scene in the '12 movie?
> 
> Anyway, I'm pretty new to writing in general and completely new to the fandom, so if you drop a kind word in the comments I'll love you to the moon and back! Critique is welcome too, of course.


End file.
